SPN-Fanfiction - the trouble with the Winchester Surprise
by spnfanfromeurope
Summary: What really happened when Dean tried to make Winchester Surprise? Pre-series. No spoilers, no ships, no smut. Triggerwarning for horrible parenting and spanking. A few curse words. Not in my abusive-John-verse - but he is still being a... well, he won't win any parenting awards. Thank you for the prompt to C.D. Wofford. I own nothing, I just borrow the toys.


It had been one of those days for Dad.  
Dean could see that immediately when John came back to the motel, soaking wet, looking tired and ragged.

Dad didn't even speak, he just started pulling bologna and sliced cheese out of his pants and threw it on the table.  
"I'll be back in half an hour," was the only thing he said, before he turned on his heel and was gone again.

Dean sighed. His stomach was rumbling. Food had been scarce lately, and even though Dad was hunting something in the same town as the old motel, where they where staying, he hadn't been home a lot these last two weeks.

Sam got up from the couch, where he had been slouched in front of the TV and started whining at Dean about being hungry and what was for dinner.  
Dean couldn't help the stab of anger, quickly hidden.  
At least Sammy had had breakfast today – he'd eaten the last of the Lucky Charms, while Dean had claimed not to be hungry.

Taking a firm hold of his temper, Dean smiled brightly at his little brother:  
"Tell you what Sammy, I'll make us a special treat. I'll make Winchester Surprise, just like Mom used to make."

Sam perked up at the thought and started bombarding Dean with questions about food:  
What did Mom make other than that? Did Dad ever cook? What had been Dean's favorite?  
And Dean told Sammy how Mom made the best apple-pie in the world. And how when Dean was sick, she used to make this tomato-rice soup for him. And Dad too – Dad had sometimes made the best special pancakes ever for a Sunday breakfast…

While he was talking, Dean looked through the cupboards of the small motel kitchenette, not that he didn't already know what were and weren't there… in the end he gave up and looked at the hotplate… it was smooth and made to be easy to clean…nothing else for it…

Dean took all the baloney and all that sliced cheese. Mentally crossing his fingers, he put it on the hotplate in neat layers, turning the heat up to max. Had to get dinner ready quickly before Dad came back.

"Ok, Sammy, let's set the table, so it's ready when Dad comes back…"

The two boys worked companionably setting the table with the mismatched tableware. They decorated the plates with slightly crookedly folded paper from the roll on the wall in the kitchenette. Closely watched by Dean, Sam even went outside to pick a handful of scrawny, weedy wildflowers from edge of the parking lot and carefully put them in a chipped glass with water, before he set them in the middle of the table.

Hmmm… something was wrong. There was a smell, that didn't smell like food at all… Dean whirled towards the hotplate and stared, aghast, at the burning, smoking mess, that was supposed to be dinner. Melting cheese was sliding down the sides, bubbling like lava onto the countertop.

Uncertainly, Dean picked up a fork and poked at the top-layer of the mess…maybe it was just the bottom layers that were burned, maybe he could… he stuck a small sample into his mouth, hissing as hot cheese burned the roof of his mouth, then almost gagged.  
No… this didn't taste right, not at all, it tasted like it smelt… Dean felt like crying…what was he supposed to do now?

Sam had left the door open and some of the smoke was idly starting to waft that way, seeking for freedom, when there was a grumbling noise like an earthquake:

"What the Hell is going on here? Why is the door open? Where is the salt line? What's that smoke?"  
Dad's voice changed to a sudden curse. He shoved Dean to the side, grabbed the hotplate, cursed again, as the lava-like cheese flowed onto his hands and with a hard jerk made the whole sticky, stinking mess slide into the thrash-can. The hotplate was thrown into the kitchen sink with another curse before the big man turned to his oldest son.

"What the hell was that all about? Did you just decide to ruin all that food for the hell of it? What's the matter with you?"  
Dad's voice rose until he was almost yelling, and Dean stuttered a bit as he tried to answer the torrent of questions:  
"I was just... I wanted to make Winchester Surprise just like M…"  
He didn't get any farther than that, before the flat of his dad's hand landed across his cheek, slamming his head to the side, burning like the melted cheese had burned his mouth.

For a crystal-clear moment everyone stood frozen, John's hand still hanging in the air between them, then the levee broke and everything happened almost at once in a torrential rush of activity.

The first thing was an incoherent yell from Sam, who threw his small body straight at his dad's large one, hitting John in the middle hard enough and surprisingly enough to make the solid hunter stagger on his feet.  
John got his feet back under him quickly and blasphemed with vigor as he tried to get a hold of his squirming son, who was pummeling his midsection while still yelling his head off.  
Finally getting a hold of Sam's shoulder, John turned the boy around, bend him over, tugged him firmly under his arm and smacked his large palm onto the denim clad target now in front of him.

The yelling stopped, briefly, then took off again, in a whole new tonal register as John's hand continued to rain down smack after smack. Sam was struggling and kicking, his yells quickly changing to sobs and as one source of noise died down, John realized that Dean was the other source of commotion in the room, screaming at him to stop.

John lifted his head to tell his oldest to shut the fuck up, but when his eyes met Dean's instead of backing down, the boy raised a fist and punched his dad, right in the jaw.  
Once again everything froze for a breathless moment, Dean's eyes going big and the pupils expanding until there was hardly any green to be seen.  
John felt the fuses in his brain pop, one after another, until there was only one goal left – the determination to end this rebellion and disrespect once and for all. He let go of the burden under his arm, and reached for the older boy.

Dean was standing still, immobile in horror at what he had done, staring hollowly at Sam, who had crumbled to the floor, when he felt his dad's big hand land on the back of his neck.

He didn't try to resist, when Dad dragged him to the dinner-table, only felt a flash of regret as the carefully set dinnerware and the sad flowers was brushed off the surface with a sweep of Dad's free arm, before he was dumped unceremoniously onto the table.  
He managed to get his arms under him, thus avoiding smacking his head on the table as he landed.  
He got in a lung full of air. He felt his dad pull his jeans down to his knees, then the air left him in horror as he heard the unmistakable sound of a belt-buckle being opened.  
He turned his face into his arm and started crying even before the first lash fell. Dad had only belted him once before, when he had gotten arrested for breaking and entering in order to see a wrestling match, and he remembered that incident like it was yesterday.

Dean tried, he tried so hard, to remain quiet and to take his punishment, but the belt just kept falling and falling and Dad never let up for one moment, so he yelled, when he had the air to do so. He yelled and he begged, until there was no more air to do either, then he just gasped like a trout on land.

Caught in the inescapable onslaught of torrential pain, Dean felt his mind shutting down, synapsis by synapsis until the only thing, he was aware of was the sound of Sammy sobbing and his own growing determination to do better, be better.

He had let his Dad down so badly about a year ago and it had almost cost Sammy his life to a sthriga.  
Dean still had nightmares about that.  
Nightmares where Dad didn't rush in to save the day at the last moment, but where Sammy was killed right in front of his eyes.  
Dad hadn't punished him for that. He hadn't even mentioned it again. He just looked at Dean different and Dean knew, he had messed up so badly that no punishment could ever make it better.  
It was just the way it was: He had disobeyed and almost gotten his brother killed. There was no forgiveness for that. And he didn't deserve any.

At least this time Dad had found him worthy of punishment, of the hope of forgiveness, even though he had failed again, had failed at something as simple as cooking an edible meal.

He had let Dad down, let Sammy down, Sammy who was sobbing, deep soul-rendering sobs. Who was sobbing and hungry. Who would go to bed hungry tonight. Who would cry himself to sleep.  
And Dad. Dad, who was a hero. Who saved people and killed monsters.  
He had come home tired and hungry, just wanting something to eat, and Dean had let him down. Again.

He would do better, he would. He would be the man Dad needed him to be. He would be the soldier Dad could count on to have his back, to take care of the son, who was worthy of love, who was so smart and innocent in all this.  
He would, and maybe someday, someday he would have done enough, be good enough for Dad to look at him again like he used to, and maybe, just maybe even for Dad to be proud of him. He just had to do better, to be better.

Silence had descended in the room. The smoke had been aired out, even though the smell still lingered.

Dean was on his back in the bed, staring up at the ceiling.  
Sammy had fallen asleep quickly, curled up to Dean, a warm, beloved burden burrowed into Dean's shoulder, and heart.  
Dean held his brother gently, safely.  
He would have liked to lie on his stomach or at least his side, but Sammy had lashed onto him like an octopus as soon as they both got into bed. It was ok. Dean just lay there, awake in his exhaustion, his backside throbbing and his empty stomach tying itself into knots, aware of the shadow of his father over in the armchair, the occasional little clink of a bottle against a glass, the circle of light from the small lamp casting its brightness on the book Dad was writing in. Dad's journal. The journal that was strictly off limits, until that faithful day years later, when a small-town cop would hand that same journal to Dean, while he was cuffed to a desk in a police station.

Dad had run a hand over Dean's hair, as he turned the bed light off.  
Dean relished the lingering feeling of the big warm palm over his sweat-soaked hair with its implied forgiveness. He was keeping himself very still, trying hard not to chase that feeling away, unmoving as silent tears slipped down his cheeks until finally, long after the circle of light had blinked out, Dean quietly walked across the border to the land of dreams.

John snuck out of the motel-room at 2 in the morning and went straight to the nearest dive. He shook his head against the bone-deep exhaustion and went into the bar.  
One beer, two hours and a few games of pool later, he decided that he had enough cash in his pocket for what he was planning. After all too little sleep, John struggled out of bed again in the early morning to go shopping for a few key items.

Dean woke up to his Dad's hand once again carting through his hair, still sticky from last nights sweat and smoke.  
Dad whispered quietly in his ear:  
"Wake up, son, come on. I want to show you something."

Dean groaned a little as he rolled out of bed. His ass was sending out waves of complaints at the movement, but he got himself up and onto his feet.  
Dad sent him to the bathroom to get dressed. When he came back, he was waved over to the kitchenette. He noticed that Dad had cleaned up the mess from last night, and even gotten the hotplate decent enough to pass muster.  
Dad held out a frying pan.  
"I got this. And a pot. And a bowl. We'll bring that along with us, I think it will make some things easier."  
Dean nodded, a little confused.  
"Ok, son."  
Dad smiled at him as the opened the fridge.  
"I'm gonna teach you how to make my special secret ingredient pancakes. And I'll show you how to fry up some nice crispy bacon. The food of gods. The ultimate breakfast item."  
Sam woke up a little later to the mouthwatering smell of bacon being fried and the sound of his big brother laughing.

P.S.: the secret ingredient turned out to be a truckload of vanilla.


End file.
